


i've been crossing all the lines

by bruce_the_shark



Category: Band of Brothers, Band of Brothers RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Domestic Violence, F/F, F/M, Femslash, Genderbending, I think that's everything, M/M, MINOR AND OR BRIEF MENTIONS OF: abuse, Multi, Rule 63, depressing inner thoughts, fem!luztoye, i have no idea how to tag this? clearly?, squint or miss it homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 10:07:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9486503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bruce_the_shark/pseuds/bruce_the_shark
Summary: Sometimes they end up slow dancing, hands on hips, arms around necks, heads on shoulders, picture perfect prom moments just for them.





	

**Author's Note:**

> *Nothing but my utmost respect and love for the real men of Easy Company, thank you for your service and legacy.
> 
> **Also, I will state this now, the Joseph Toye/Herbert Sobel relationship of this story is purely for plot purposes and is, at no point, graphically detailed. I needed someone that was canonically disliked to be the bad guy and, well, we all know who that is!
> 
> ***Lastly, there are minor mentions of blood, abuse/violence, and blink and you'll miss it homophobia. Basically, If you've seen Hayley Kiyoko's video for "Girls Like Girls" this fic is just that...but with genderbent luztoye. Whoops?

Georgia Luz pedals home, tongues at the split in her bottom lip, tastes the aluminum flavor of blood still crusted there. There’s a dried streak of it on her cheek, more congealed in her hair, but even as it pulls and flakes she can’t find it in herself to regret anything. She _tick-tick-ticks_ along, smiles so wide her appled cheeks threaten to swallow her eyes, heart in her throat and knuckles green-yellow-grey with bruises.

***

It happens like this:

Jo answers the door with a smirk of mischief tucked into the corner of her lips. Georgia’s always wondered what it would taste like -- a hint of wanderlust, a late night skinny dip, an evening drive with the windows down. She swallows hard, smiles the best she can, follows Jo into depths of her house with a ducked head and burning cheeks.

Herbert Sobel’s in the kitchen shotgunning a beer, cargo shorts low on his hips and an unbuttoned dress shirt halfway falling off his shoulders. Georgia does her best to ignore him, goes so far as to circle around the bar just to avoid his space. Jo’s fearless though, swans right in front of him, tips the end of the beer can up ever so slightly with a vicious looking acrylic just to laugh as he chokes, sputters, cusses her out as she slides herself up onto the counter. Georgia follows suit, pulls her legs up to sit criss-cross-applesauce to escape Herbert’s angry strides between the sink and the trashcan. Jo rolls her eyes, lights a cigarette, has the audacity to exhale a plume of smoke right into Herbert’s face as he yells at her.

Georgia watches with eyes as wide as the decorative plates on the wall as Jo just takes her free hand and plants it on a pimpled cheek, shoves him away as though swatting a fly.

Jo laughs, Herbert doesn’t.

She tells him to go clean the pool if he wants something to bitch about. He goes with a glare and Jo sighs, takes another drag of her cigarette, turns to Georgia with a tired grin. Georgia’s not sure what her face does in return, hesitates only a heartbeat to lean forward with parted lips when Jo offers out her nicotine. The cigarette lands gentle against her bottom lip, the tips of Jo’s acrylics the barest hint of a tickle against her face as she pulls away. Jo watches her as she inhales, transfixed for the briefest of seconds. They both jump at Herbert’s yells from the patio.

Jo curses softly, rolls her eyes, slips down from the counter to yell out a response as she stomps outside. Georgia watches her quietly with raised brows, doesn’t ask why Jo’s with Herbert Sobel when it’s clear he’s just an asshole.

She reaches up, plucks the cigarette from her lips, flicks off dead ash with fingers with chipped nail polish. Jo’s left a trail of diluted perfume and sunscreen for her to follow, a scent so inherently her own Georgia thinks it could compete with oxygen and win.

Then again she's always been biased when it comes to Josephine Toye, has been since they were six.

She stands in the shade of Jo’s backyard and watches Herbert lose his shit over pool filters, hates herself for finding Jo’s pinched brows and anger flushed cheeks so beautiful.

*

They’re out in one of the undeveloped sections at the edge of Jo’s subdivision when Georgia realizes just how fucked she is.

There’s empty beer cans littered around Herbert’s feet as he tosses a rock into the air, swings with his Louisville slugger just to miss. He cusses, kicks at a can, misses that too. Jo laughs, wild and just a bit dangerous, arms upstretched with a blanket that flaps and whips behind her. Georgia’s job is to hold the little speaker they’ve brought with them, ambient rap playing tinnily from its tiny speakers.

She’s not sure what ambient rap is, exactly, but she’ll listen to it for the rest of her life on loop just to watch the way it makes Jo twist and sway. The other girl spins to look at her, black hair slipping like silk around her neck and over her shoulders, her spine a liquid wavelength.

Georgia feels her world tilt as the sun starts its slow goodnight, fingers of rose, peach, and plum that catch on the skeletons of unfinished houses in the distance. Jo dances on, a breathtaking figure bathed in gold. Georgia’s three heart beats into what she hopes is an asthma attack.

To acknowledge her sweaty palms and rushing sound of her own pulse in her ears as anything else would be suicide.

Jo makes her way over, whips the blanket around Georgia’s shoulders to tug her in close. The speaker’s muffled between them, Jo’s scarlet lips singing the words, soft and intimate as though sharing a well-kept secret.

Georgia swallows, lets herself notice the shadow of Jo’s lashes on her cheeks, the way her freckles have all but disappeared beneath a honey dark tan. She thinks there's a question deep in the glint of Jo’s whiskey amber eyes, but just as quickly as it's there it's gone again, a trick of the light. Jo surges forward, tangles them in a haphazard hug, sighs into Georgia’s neck.

Georgia breathes in, watches over Jo’s shoulder as Herbert Sobel attempts another swing at another rock and misses bigger than shit.

Georgia breathes out, thinks she's never seen a more accurate metaphor.

*

On days hot and thick with suffocating humidity they stay tucked inside, laid out on the tile of Jo’s bathroom floor. Six walls away Herbert Sobel yells – at the TV, at Jo’s cat, at his video games, at the world.

Georgia wonders about him, never asks out loud about his perpetual presence, about the dry rotted relationship Jo insists on keeping.

Instead, she lets Jo do her nails, lets the other girl cradle her hands in her own, watches her dab at each nail with tiny colored brushes. The floor’s cool to touch beneath their bare legs where they're next to the air vent, down low out of the way of the lingering heat above.

Jo’s thigh where Georgia’s free hand rests burns like the hot hood of a car.

Her fingers twitch against the smooth skin, the barest suggestion of stubble catching at the pads of her fingers. Jo flashes her a grin, finishes with her other hand, releases her wrist with a grip that lingers and a quirked brow at a job well done.

Georgia smiles, brings both hands to her face to blow on, watches Jo watch her pursed lips. She ducks her head to hide the traitorous flush of her cheeks, bites her lip at the soft touch Jo slides across her knee as she maneuvers to get up.

*

They dance sometimes, too, Jo’s beat up old turntable still lively enough to spin away in the background. The needle doesn’t scratch out Jo’s preferred music, but instead whatever record Georgia manages to pilfer from her weekly visit to Ray Person’s thrift shop. Jo laughs as she flies out of a sloppy twirl, crashes into Georgia next to her, twists their tangled limbs into a half assed waltz around the room.

Sometimes they end up slow dancing, hands on hips, arms around necks, heads on shoulders, picture perfect prom moments just for them.

*

Georgia can’t quite place why summers feel so liminal. She hates endings, refused to finish a single book for three whole years just to save herself the pain of a story's last page.

Jo loves endings, loves to experience the great culmination of all things big and small and maybe – _just maybe_ – that’s why Georgia keeps her hands, heart, and love to herself. What she hates Jo loves and maybe that's what scares her the most.

Georgia wouldn’t know what to do with herself if Jo were to shove her on a shelf as though a well-read book, dog eared and graffitied with scraggly notes written in her margins marking all of Jo’s favorite parts.

*

She hears the yells from the kitchen, has to strain a bit to make out the words over the dropped bass. She leans forward from her place atop the kitchen counter, peers into the living room, squints, tries to pick out the human forms shadowed in darkness.

Someone flicks on a light, turns down the music. Georgia’s heart stops mid-beat.

Herbert’s got Jo in front of him, hands like vices around her upper arms. A chalk outline of broken chips surround them on the floor, a blood stain of salsa darkening the carpet. Herbert’s face is an angry boil ready to pop, red and pinched as he shakes Jo violently.

Georgia swallows dry, heart kick starting into overtime as she levers herself off the counter, gets stopped by a hand on her knee. Edie Heffron is shaking her head, her girlfriend Jean biting her lip next to her. Georgia looks at them helplessly, wonders what they know that she doesn’t, wonders what secrets Jo’s been keeping from her. They each startle at a sudden wooden snap from the living room, Georgia grabbing at Edie’s hand.

She looks up in time to see Herbert’s body dipped into the frame of what's left of Jo’s coffee table, spindly elbows and knees jutted out in awkward, broken angles. Jo’s tucked under Bill Guarnere’s arm, face pink and wet with tears. Behind them Dick Winters attempts damage control, demanding all of Herbert’s friends to hit it, the party’s over, makes it official with the pull of a speaker plug.  

Georgia loses sight of what happens next as Bill brings her Jo, mouths _she only wants you_ with worried eyes. She swallows hard, reaches out to tug Jo into the open vee of her legs. Jo latches on, loops her arms around her waist, burrows into the crutch of her neck and shoulder. She grips Jo tight, holds back her flinch at the hot tears that tickle their way over her collarbone.

Their friends leave, faces somber and soft as they wave goodnight. Georgia smoothes wrinkles of fabric with one hand, picks flyaway strands of Jo’s collapsed bun from her mouth with the other. Jo simply curls into her further, slips both hands under the loose hem of her shirt, kneads at the skin there.

David Webster peeks around the corner, eyes pinched in concern as he looks them both over. Georgia watches him watch them, wonders if he sees himself in their tangled constellation of missed connections. Wonders why Joseph Liebgott hasn't been back home since last summer.

It must show on her face because he smiles, a sad sympathetic little thing, and gives her a thumbs up, motions at the living room. She nods in thanks, watches him go silently, hears front door whisper shut behind him.

The kitchen light hums above them as Jo breathes in and Georgia breathes out, hands tangled in hair, hands tracing skin. Georgia doesn't know how long they stay there, doesn't let the little flame in her heart fan itself into a fire quite yet. She can feel it burning, fluttering away with small wings of hope, pinned behind ribs of glass.

She swallows down the words caught in her throat, closes her eyes at the soft press of lips to her neck.

*

Herbert Sobel just isn’t there the next day.

Or the next, or the one after that, or the one after that.

Perhaps for the first time that summer Georgia and Jo have the house to themselves. They lie on Jo’s bed, face to face, and relish in the silence. Georgia lets her eyes flutter close, sighs into the void around them. Jo traces the bridge of her nose, the arch of her eyebrow, her nails free of their usual acrylics. Georgia smiles at the feel of her fingertips, peeks an eye open to watch.

Jo has pinched eyes and a frown, her gaze focused on something Georgia can’t see. She checks to make sure, finds only the glitter of dust in the morning light between them. She watches Jo’s face, wishes she could know the thoughts churning behind her honeyed brown eyes.

Georgia reaches up, pulls Jo’s hand from her face. Jo blinks once, twice, seems to realize she’s there. Jo pulls her hand free and Georgia lets her, watches as Jo rolls to her other side, levers herself from the bed. She pads quietly out of the room and Georgia thinks she should feel annoyed or offended or somewhere on the spectrum of hurt but can’t reason why.

She reaches out, touches the warmth Jo left behind, wonders at what’s about to change.

*

Georgia knocks even though Jo’s told her not to.

Herbert Sobel answers the door, lips twisted in a cruel smirk. He looks every bit the winner he thinks he is, cocky and sure of his place in Jo’s life. His smile’s practically manic as he slams the door in Georgia’s face, deadbolts it with the finality of a nail in a coffin.

Georgia feels a red hot surge of anger spiral through her veins, feels her bones vibrate with the pressure of her near nuclear heart. She gets back on her bike, pedals to the end of town just to scream at the nothingness there, just to feel like the most powerful person in a place where none exist.

She screams instead of cries because that’s what Herbert Sobel wants and Georgia Luz would rather die a million times over than give Herbert Sobel even the smallest sense of satisfaction of a single tear.

*

Jo calls, texts, tweets, and Facebooks for a week straight.

Georgia’s throat is raw with a metallic tang to it, makes everything she drinks taste like tinfoil.

This is her excuse for not answering her phone, for not leaving her room, for not leaving her house: summer sinuses.

Her mom doesn’t comment, just slides a box of DayQuil under her door, says it’ll clear her head.

Georgia opens it, smiles at the chocolate kisses inside, knows she’s going to be alright.

She’ll make it.

*

It’s the end of August when it all culminates in a single emoji.

Jo never uses them, hates them at the very core of her being, would prefer texting with bamboo shoots beneath her nails if it meant never having to send one.

That’s why Georgia feels the universe pause when she opens Jo’s latest message, sees only the clash of primary colors, the yellow crying face and a blue waterfalls of tears.

She’s out the door and on her bike before her phone’s even in her pocket, is knocking at Jo’s door before her mom even realizes she’s gone.

There’s no answer, no sound of life on the other side. She tries the handle, finds it unlocked, wonders if this is how a star feels as it starts to die, one giant vacuum of gravity and physics pulling it in on itself.

She slips inside, tiptoes through the entryway and down the hall, finds an empty kitchen. Jo’s bedroom is similarly devoid of life, her parent’s bedroom, her dad’s office, and the guest bedroom alien planets too.

She peeks into the living room, stills at the sight of a passed out Herbert Sobel, beer can still in hand. She shuffles up behind the sofa, peers down at him with a frown. There’s a pile of end pillows on the floor and she wonders if she has enough arm strength to press one down on his face, to keep him held down until his gangly and arms and legs would quit thrashing.

She thinks of summer long name calling, of all the pushes and shoves, the yelling and the clenched fists and the pure bitterness laced into every word.

She leaves him there on the sofa with a look of regret, would hate to put a pillow through the indignity of suffocating him.

The back screen door’s paused halfway open, flies and bees zipping in and out. Georgia follows their trail, finds herself once again in the shade of Jo’s backyard.

And there she is.

Georgia slowly shuffles towards the pool, lowers herself down next to Jo, dips her feet into cool depths below. Jo doesn’t move, just stares down at the water, face hidden by a curled curtain of hair. Georgia frowns at her, softly kicks her feet, counts the ripples that lap at their calves.

She opens her mouth, closes it, doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know how to apologize, doesn’t know if she even should.

Jo saves her from herself, uncurls a hand from the cold concrete edge of the pool, places it on Georgia’s thigh. The tip of her pinky brushes the worn denim of her shorts and Jo sighs heavily, hunches in on herself, and Georgia wonders if she’s a dying star too.

She wonders what they’ll create if they collide.

She palms the back of Jo’s hand, feels the sharp stab of her bony knuckles rake across the intersection of her love and fate lines. She grips at the hand on her leg, watches the sway of Jo’s hair, sweats in the heat of a dying summer.

She’s not sure how long they sit there like that, connected by one small point of contact, but it’s long enough for Jo to steel herself, to slowly reach up and smooth her hair behind her ear. In the rose tinted hue of early evening Georgia implodes in on herself, becomes a grenade without a pin, detonation time unknown.

Jo looks at her with a busted up face and swollen lip, a wariness in her eyes Georgia doesn’t remember ever seeing there.

She stares at Jo staring at her, has to reach out and touch just to make sure she’s not dreaming. She reaches out tentatively, cups a bruised cheek in her palm. Jo doesn’t flinch, doesn’t do anything, just watches her silently. She thumbs lightly at the lavender skin shadowing Jo’s eye, feels her throat constrict and her palms sweat. She thinks she might be sick.

It must show on her face because Jo grabs at her hand, holds it to her chest, suddenly rocks forward to knock their foreheads together. Georgia lets it happen, lets Jo thread her free hand into the mess of her hair, lets her grip at the strands as though a lifeline. She breathes in as Jo breathes out, alternating breaths until there are none, just Jo’s lips against Georgia’s own, chapped and swollen and perfect.

Georgia fists as much of Jo’s shirt as she can, greedy to a fault and starved for something she’s never had. She pulls at Jo’s shirt, tugs her closer, cups her neck, her knee, her shoulder, wherever her butterfly of a hand manages to land. Jo smiles against her lips, pulls away breathless and rosy cheeked, lips moving to form words Georgia’s sure she’s heard in a dream.

But suddenly there’s a different hand in her hair, rough and bony, its grip punishing as it jerks her head up and away. Herbert Sobel screams as he shakes her, hauls her up to her feet, skin tearing against concrete. She can’t understand what he’s yelling over the pulsing rush of blood in her ears, can just feel the spittle of his profanity on her cheeks, the knotted grip at the back of her head.

Georgia feels hands push and pull at her body, Jo’s screams mixing in with Herbert’s own. She feels the world tilt, and tilt, and tilt until she’s weightless, falling through air, landing hard against the brick lining of Mrs. Toye’s flowerbed. She watches feet dance in and out of her vision, Jo’s painted toes, Herbert’s crooked ones, watches her own blood seep and spread into the rust colored sediment.

She blinks and blinks and blinks, hears the world come back into focus as though through a funnel, feels herself detonate. She pushes herself up with bloody hands, gets her footing with shaking legs, launches herself at Herbert Sobel. They go down hard, Georgia’s knees singing as broken skin reconnects with gravel, but she’s too busy screaming, hands balled into fists, beating Herbert Sobel into the ground like the worm he is.

She punches for every snide comment, every lecherous leer, every put down ever uttered over the course of the summer. She punches for herself, for Jo, for slow dancing by themselves and midnight bike rides and blueberry pancakes and the way Jo glows in the evening sun and the way Georgia is completely and recklessly in love with her best friend.

She screams as she breaks skin, breaks bone, stops only when there’s hands underneath her arms, lifting her, pulling her from her rage. Jo tugs at her, turns her away as Floyd Talbert and Chuck Grant loom over Herbert, looks of amazement on their faces, breathless from rushing over from next door. Georgia watches as he rolls over, coughs through the blood flowing from his broken nose, feels herself detonate all over again.

Jo holds her back, hysterical as she grips at Georgia’s shoulders, cups her neck, her cheeks, the crown of her head, grounds her like no one else can. Georgia grips her hips, her arms, her shoulders, checks for herself that Jo is alive and well right in front of her, face tearstained and beautiful.

Jo thumbs at her lip, smears away the blood there, kisses her as though news of the end of the world just broke and this it, folks, this is your last chance, kiss your loved ones goodbye.

Off to the side someone wolf whistles, Tab or Chuck, but Georgia can’t bring herself to care. There’s a sun kissed girl in her arms and blood on her hands and Georgia’s never been more okay with that.

***

It ends like this:

Georgia Luz loves Jo Toye and she loves her back.


End file.
